


A letter from John

by Howlynn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Break Up, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, Giving Up, Goodbyes, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Mental Breakdown, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Sad, Sad Sherlock, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sorrow, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlynn/pseuds/Howlynn
Summary: We don't know what that note Molly gave to Sherlock said, but the look on her face showed that it could not be good.  We may get to see it next week, but this is my version.  May be spoilers, may be not.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stood in the doorway for an unknown time, holding the piece of paper that had just been handed to him. 

It was much like holding his own beating heart in his hand for inspection.  He was looking down at his final destruction and he knew it before he even opened it.  

Sherlock stuffed it into his pocket and eventually turned to leave.  He knew John was watching him from behind the shutterers. He stood for a long moment, letting him have a final look.  

He could see his own face ghosted in the glass.  He let his sorrow radiate.   He could not see John in the murky surface, but he felt him. 

Sherlock offered a pained smile and nodded his farewell.  He wished he had died on the plane.  Better yet, he wished he had died at Bart's.   This was going to do more damage than he could ever fix.  

 

He returned to Baker street and pulled off his gloves by the fingers with his teeth.  He removed the note from his pocket and looked at the cursed thing.  His fingers trembled as he opened it and began reading.  

 

Sherlock Holmes,

We have come to the end of our association.  

I doubt you will be bothered by that, but it makes me feel good to say it.  I know you can't feel anything so all I am accomplishing is fair notice. 

Don't ever come near me again.  Not ever. Not for any reason.  You know who I am. Don't make me prove it.  Do not test me this time, I have Rosie to think of and I don't want her to grow up alone.  

With that said, I also want to say that I will eventually remember that there were brilliant days as well.  Let us leave them here and not end this with one of us as a crime scene.  

I know you and Mary thought I was so stupid that I would never see the betrayal, but you were wrong.  I did see.  You and her buggering off to your little secret spy lair?   I went there.  I saw you.  I know.  

Oh God, I know and I have to live with it for the rest of my life.  You took her from me in every possible way and then you let her die.  

I can't forgive you. Not this time.  

See, the other side of that coin is that I never loved her half as much as I did you, but I had to pick her, because I thought she could at least love me back.  I would have sold my soul if you could have been capable of the slightest emotion, but Moriarty never had any way to win, not really.   

He wanted to burn your heart out. Instead, he got mine.  

You win.  

John 

 

Sherlock sat in the dark for hours, then went to his desk and pulled out paper.  He began to write.


	2. The letter he hides in his pocket.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pours his grief out onto paper then tucks it in his pocket before walking his demon roads.

My dearest John,

As in all things, you see but you don't observe. 

If you are reading this, then I have found my way to Samarra after all.  Whatever my fate, I have to make a stab at this caring lark.  Read at your own risk.

 

How dare you say to me that I cannot love.  Every step I have taken for years was for you.  I loved you enough to fall and keep falling just to see you safe.  The world would be too dark of a place without you in it.  

 

Are you sure you don't want to see me again, John?   You offered me temptation, not a means to keep me away.  You have already killed me, my dear John. What is a bit of murder between two old friends?

 

You think I had relations with your wife?  Dear God but that is rich.  If I were your therapist, I would probably note that you have a problem with projection.  The good doctor with his little red headed boredom pill.  

She knew.  You are such an idiot.   

I don't know why she did what she did.  I wish she had not.  Oh John, the joy of death in your arms is a far greater gift than I shall be afforded.  

You never really knew me at all, did you?

You believed your damned stories, didn't you.  I will try to live up to them.  I will try to slay a few more dragons for my beloved blogger before I go on that final greatest lesson.  

I have let you down in so many ways.  I never deserved you.  

You have already let me go.  I hope I can manage it and don't end up some sad ghost.  I don't believe they exist but wouldn't that be interesting for a while if I was wrong? Except, trailing you about whilst you are on the pull as a pathetic bubble of mist does not appeal to me much more in death than it did in life.  

I hated them.  All those faces changing by the week, and you refusiing to even consider me.  Then, Sholto dawned on me, at your wedding. You and he had a history that I never fathomed.

Mary always assumed you and I had been more at some point.  That may have been the worst of it.   That rejection had its own time zone.   

I may have hurt you but please know that there is nothing in the eons that would tempt me to betray you.  In this one moment, see that?   Observe how despite your rejection that I was true to you with every breath I took.   

Think kindly of me if you can, now that I have paid the price for my failure.

 I loved Mary because you did.  That is the whole of it.  That is how I lost.   I loved you more than logic and science can explain.  

The east wind has come for me, John.  It is too cold to fight it without your light.  Do try to forgive me a little?

All the measures of this heart, only ever belonged to you.   

Forever,

Sherlock Holmes

 

 

***

Sherlock stood and folded the pages, sealed the envelope, placed that in an evidence bag and tucked it into the inside pocket of the Belstaff.   

He spent the next few hours in the office of John's therapist.  He found no answers there.  All roads ended in Samarra.  

A cold mist fell as he stood on the bridge, eyeing the Thames.  He waited.  She would come.  

Death always kept her appointments.  


	3. The water of life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John drinks a lot of whisky and misses Sherlock.

John knew the second Molly handed Sherlock that note that he had done the right thing.  

Sherlock seemed to know he was watching, though John kept well to the shadows and knew he was safe from those piercing eyes.  

Why did doing what he knew must be done hurt so much?   Sherlock was probably already off on one of his new games.  The work would see him past any minor discomfort John's words had wrought.  

Molly had Rosie down before he finished his first drink.  She looked at him with disapproval but said nothing as she found something to occupy herself with in the kitchen. 

 

Another two fingers went down smooth and warm.  He poured more.  

 

Molly stood at the doorway, arms crossed and determination set on her face.  " That won't solve anything."

John rolled the glass and watched the amber liquid swirl.  " No.   But.  It can't hurt much either.   Maybe it will knock me out so I can sleep."

"You didn't see his face.   I don't think you know what you just did to him."

"Molly?" John spoke low and dangerous.  

" I know what you think...it...its just--"

"Stop there.  Don't say I hurt his feelings.  He does not have any.  The sooner I get that pounded into my head, the better off I will be."

" You don't mean that.  I know you don't. " Molly crossed the room and sat near him on the sofa. "He stayed with me, you know?  After.  He hated it.  He didn't like me to see him so broken.   He was ...broken.  I promised to never tell a soul, but you ...you need to know.  He cried for days.  He was sick from it.  Mycroft had to take him.  I couldn't ... Could not help him.  Anyone who saw him...then...could never doubt...he feels.  You are wrong about him.  I know you don't want to believe me.  I am not sure he can survive this again. "

John listened then let out an exasperated laugh.  "He will be fine. He always is.  Off to Bedfordshire with you."

Three hours later, Molly woke with Rosie.  

John was still staring into space, drink tilted and nearly spilling.  She took it out of his hand and set it on the table.  

"I love her.  But I loved him more.  How did I get here?"

" I don't know," Molly said gently.  " The question is, if you want to stay here.  Just speak to him.  He has done a lot of things...not good things.  But this isn't on him."

" I can't.  Too much water under the bridge." John's eyes closed.

Molly covered him up and rocked Rosie back to sleep.  

 

 


	4. Water of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock keeps his appointment.

The water was fire.  It burned.  The pain made him scream even through the fog of the transport inhibiting solution that Billy had so kindly provided him.  

He had not meant to do this.  He had meant to die a hero's death.  Not sucking the sewage and bile of London into his lungs.

He struggled but it was no use, his coat was too heavy and the pain made him struggle uselessly against the current and the pull of darkness was too comforting.  Mycroft would be livid.  John would be....

The ringing phone registered in his mind but the bomb of pain would not let him move. John ignored it and put a pillow over his head.  

 

Mycroft stood in the carpark of the Royal London, smoking.  

Four floors up, the body of his little brother lay failing to struggle against a respirator.

Several hours later a livid John Watson was delivered to his location as Mycroft had ordered.  He always hated this little dump his brother called home. 

" Why am I here?  Whatever he did this time, it is no longer my problem," John said firmly.

Mycroft smiled his most polite expression that conveyed his intent to make someone regret breathing.  He held out an evidence bag with a letter in it.  "You are probably quite right.  They say he was in the water for far too long. This, however is addressed to you."

John stared at the offering.  "No.  Nope." He felt his stomach try to crawl up his windpipe.

"My brother was recovered by Thames rescue at four sixteen this morning.  They do not expect him to survive.  I would appreciate your medical expertise on the matter.  Should we pretend there is any hope?  Or just pull the plug?"

John sat down before he fell.  He was stunned.  

He accepted the note but could not force himself to open it.  

" His last words.  The least you can do is face your deeds.  Do you know how I know that he and your wife were not involved?"

John leaned back and glared up at Mycroft with a sigh.  " Enlighten me then?" he asked stoic and calm.   

" The woman was not wrong.  She called him a virgin.  Funny thing to say about someone.  Read the letter.  Then I will take you to make your peace with the only true love you will ever know."

 

 


	5. I have done this before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds his world a little off. He must find his way but is his path locked to him or can he find a way to still surprise his fate?

He stood in the livingroom of the parents of a boy who died in his car. He had done all of this before. John would correct him on the gender of the victim.

There had been a bust of some government toady on the table. Everything was blue.

The water. He had to avoid the water.

The woman standing next to him was not there.

" You are wasting my time, Mr. Holmes,"

"Time is not relative to your kind. Go away,"

"Time is the master of us all, I am sorry to inform you. "

"I have work to do. Come back later"

She shrugged. "It will not change. No matter how many times we do this. I have others...but I will be back when you finish playing this game ."

 

"Yes, fine. But do shut up. I need to think."

 

John stood at the foot of the bed. He had read the chart. He had read the note. He felt like he was stuck down in a well from a horror flick he had seen long ago.

He could not begin to understand who the man before him was. He could not stand the thought of never finding out.

" Sherlock. If you can hear me...I need you to...stay. I need you to... For me. Forgive me. "


	6. Road work ahead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consulting detective seeks an alternate footing.

Sherlock stood in his flat.   His things were missing and the room was empty.   He spun, feeling his coat billow into a twirl.  He'd always liked the way it felt to make his coat swish.  

Mary stood in the kitchen silent and obviously in a fury.  

"Mary?"

"What a pathetic thing to do to me, Sherlock. " She snorted her disgust.  " You didn't even make it to my funeral.  Could have at least stuck around for that."

 

"Sorry?  I am not actually dead just yet."

" Be very careful, before you decide.  We may end up on opposite teams."  She pointed to her head and only then did he notice that somehow the horns from the bison skull decorated Mary's head.  

"They suit you.  Very fetching." Sherlock moved closer to her, unafraid of her and needing to touch her.  He raised his hand and gently palmed her face. He kissed her on the forehead, protectively and full of his own sorrow.  " I miss you.   So much," he murmered into her hair.  

"I miss you too, you great berk." She put her arms around him and hugged him close.  

They both tried to hide their tears and stood silently for a few centuries.  Mary sniffed and pulled away.  

"I am angry with you," she said with a little smile.

"I know.   Most everyone is ...on a pretty regular basis."

"If you leave him, like this.  He will follow.  He's drinking, Sherlock.  You have never seen him like that."

"We ended up in custody on the Stag night."

Mary shook her head.  The horns shimmered in the light with a deep blue flash of electricity.  "No.  That was him drinking with you.  He is silly and pleased. Him drinking over you, is not the same.  It is ugly and he is an arse to anyone who tries to help.   It will kill him.   It won't take years.  You were not there to see it.  He always blamed himself, you know?  Before?  He hung on by a strand of silk.  He thought you leaping off a roof was his fault and he tried repeatedly to stop existing.  It was why he avoided everyone.  He didnt want anyone around to stop him."

"He hates me.  It will be different this time."

Mary sighed and groaned, "Oh Sherlock, you emotional moron, last time he blamed himself, this time you blamed him.  How do you see that working out?  Hmmm?"

"Oh." Sherlock raised his hand and laced his fingers into his own hair in sudden panicked understanding.  

He turned back to the empty flat and shook his head in anguish.  "But, it is all gone.  I can't fix it.  I can't make it right."

"Well, I can." 

He turned to Mary and she held her Walther PPQ M2.  He smirked and a burst of laughter erupted.  "Bit redundant, don't you think?"

"Not killing you, sending you back.  This time is going to hurt a lot more, trust me.   See you in a few years.  I am glad we got to be friends."

Sherlock frowned. "I got you killed!"

"I got me killed, you goof.  Now go save my idiot husband.   And kiss my Rosie every chance you get or I will haunt you, swear to ...well, you don't need to know about that..." she bit her lip and wrinkled her nose.

"I don't actually believe in God," Sherlock stated flatly.

"Too bad.   Because the whole world believes in Sherlock Holmes and maybe a broken little doctor in a wooly jumper believes enough for both of you?"

He opened his mouth to reply and she shot him three times before he hit the floor.   

 

It hurt far worse than the first time.  His head was pure lava in ocean water, hissing and boiling with pain.  His chest felt like he had been stomped by an elephant.  His mouth was forced open and he bit the offending invader.

"Sherlock.  Sherlock?  Can you hear me?  God, Please...please.  Sherlock.  It is John.   Open your eyes for me?  Please, Sherlock...just for me..."

Sherlock clamped down on the hand holding his own and used the leverage to wedge open his iron door eyelids.  

A blob of John Watson shaped wrath met his foggy vision and he felt angry lips press to his forehead and a whispered, " Thank, Christ, you're back..."

 


	7. Demon roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The roads we walk have demons and sometimes minor British government tar.

"Dont do this, Mycroft!  This is not what I came back for!" Sherlock shouted in frustration.

Mycroft sighed in misery, "There is nothing for me to do.  Your suicide attempt is on record.  It made the news.  It isn't your first.  It is manditory, little brother.  It is out of my hands.  I am sorry."

Sherlock turned to John pleading with every cell of his being, "John...don't let him.  I am begging you."

John scrunched up his face and took a deep breath, dreading the reaction of what he was about to say. "Sherlock, I can't.  It is a 48 hour observation." John stepped forward and said with a quietly conspiritorial tone, "We both know something is not right.  Okay?  You are talking to people who are not there, yes? "

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, hurt and betrayal plain in the microexpressions flitting across his calm determined mask.

"I swear to you that I will get you out in two days.  Just, don't do anything to make them...treat it like a case, Sherlock.  Cooperate.  Be docile.  Dr. Smith has a brilliant reputation.  He is no goldfish and he might just surprise you if you give him a chance.  For me? "

Sherlock lifted his chin and froze his face in his favored shroud of disdainful arrogance.  " Fine.  I will just do it my way."

"You won't be able to escape this facility, Sherlock," Mycroft stated confidently. 

Sherlock let the corners of his mouth tip up in a familiar smirk.  "Keep telling yourself that, if it eases your guilty mind."

John interjected, "You know, this might actually help you?  You know?  Being given some tools to cope with ...with the things we have experienced ...there is no shame in that.  It is not a weakness ..to need a few weapons and a bit of armor in battle?"

Sherlock took a breath to speak then let it go.  " Very well, John.   I will do as you asked," he whispered as if he was consenting to being publicly flogged.  

"Thank you.  It will all be fine. Make me a noodle art crime scene.  We will hang it by the skull painting."

Sherlock smiled slightly and teased, " Trying to get me locked up for good?"

 

Two days later, Sherlock was nearly catatonic and mumbling to what he identified as demons.  

Dr. Smith was all charm and jokes and reassurances.  John hated him instantly.   

Mycroft was somber and from his remarkably sentimental comments about demons walking on roads or some nonsense to his brother, he was fairly off his game.  

 


	8. Demon mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does not trust anyone. Sherlock has gone utterly mad.

John and Mycroft sat in the Jaguar as it pulled away from the kerb.  John sniffed and cleared his throat trying to hold himself together.

"Something is wrong there, Mycroft.   I don't know what, but that...hnnnnmmm...that is not helping him.  Let me get him out of there.  Who do these people think they are?"

 

"There have been instances of Madness in my familial line, John.   We have to be patient.  I can assure you there is no finer facility.  MI6 swears by the man.  He has performed miracles with some of our assets."

 

"I don't care.  He is wrong about Sherlock.   It feels like I am leaving him to the sharks..." John's voice broke.  " He is coming to the funeral.   No matter if I have to get him there in a wheelchair.  He is coming.  Do you understand?"

 

"I will make arrangements."

John nodded and they rode on in silence.   

Mrs. Hudson had tea and cake waiting for Sherlock's homecoming.  She was furious they had left him behind.   She blamed Mycroft and litterally booted him from 221B.   

John tried to explain, but she would not hear of it.  "You promised him, John.   Such a shame."

Her disapproval was more lethal than nightshade. 

At half two in the morning, John Watson charmed his way into Sherlock's room.  What he found made him sick.   Sherlock was restrained.  He had vomited and soiled the bed and been forced to lay in his own filth.   

The only good thing about this condition was that whatever they were drugging him with, had evidently come up as well. Sherlock was there.  His eyes widened as John took in the scene.

"John?" he whispered.  

Dr. Watson had charmed his way into the facility, but it took his semi-automatic to charm his way back out with a drunken stumbling Sherlock in tow.   

They were still on the run, well John was in Mary's car and they were proceeding at illegal rates of speed toward London when the phone rang through the car's bluetooth.

With a smirk and a wink, John answered,  " To what do I owe the pleasure, Mycroft?"

He could hear Mycroft roll his eyes. "If you are not too busy, playing cowboys and pirates, might I have a moment of your time to discuss...WHAT THE BLOODY HELL YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

 

 


	9. Of course it is a game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock slays his dragon.

 

From the blog of John Watson

...

...

There were terrible moments, don't get me wrong, but Sherlock prevailed in the long run, just like he always does.

I didn't approve of Sherlock going back after the funeral, but trust Sherlock to find a case and save a lot of innocent people, no matter the risk.

 

He says that "when a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has the nerve and he has the knowledge."

That was absolutely true of Dr. Smith.

He had been poisoning his patients for years and a look into his records show several deaths that occured in tandem with his property deals.

He tried to convince me that Sherlock was posessed by demons and that he would need to be in perminant care.   I was not having that of course.  

The man I love most in this world, the man my beautiful wife died to save, the man who kissed me for the first time three weeks ago today, he doesnt have demons...he is the bloody demon.  

Criminals...remember that.  

For now we will be bidding you farewell.   We have to take a break, Sherlock and Rosie and me.

We are going to move to the country for a while.  My daughter deserves to not be knocking around on crime scenes...at least until she is a bit older.  Sherlock, the insane tit, has ordered bees.   Bees!   

I also want to say, that yes, he is my boyfriend.  He is my...boyfriend.  Someday he will be my husband if the damned bees don't sting him to death.  I don't know how you all will feel about that, but I hope most of you care about us enough to be pleased that in the midst of tragity and sorrow, that we found something that makes us both think life just might be worth living after all.

So we are going to give this a go and hopefully we will see you in a few years.

Cheers

John Watson.

* * *

 

For God's sake, John, turn on your spell check? SH

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